chauvinist pig, which I probably am from time to time. âWhy not a woman?â
âBecause the lady at the shelter told me it was a guy,â I answered.
âOkay, some guy gave the cat to the shelter, and maybe heâs a killer, and maybe heâs just a good Christian,â said Mrs. Cominsky. âWhat does that have to do with me?â
âI wrote an ad as if I was the owner, hoping heâd make contact with me. But I think it could be a little better, or at least a little more sincere . I was hoping that if I show it to you that you might make a suggestion or two.â
âAh!â she said happily, now that we were getting down to business. âLet me see it!â
I pulled the paper out, unfolded it, and handed it to her. She studied it for a moment, a frown of either concentration or disapproval written large across her face.
âWell?â I asked when she looked up.
âFirst of all, the cat needs a name.â
âFluffy,â I told her.
She took a pencil out of a pocket and scribbled the name down on the paper.
âAnd sheâs not your mackerel tabby,â she said. âSheâs your beloved mackerel tabby.â
âOkay,â I said, as she wrote it down. âAnything else?â
âYes,â she said. âHe turned her in, not it . Beloved cats are never its.â She scribbled again. âAlso, he didnât find her; he saved her. And maybe a heartfelt gift, rather than just a gift. You donât want to say a valuable gift or youâll get three hundred jerks calling and pretending they turned the cat in.â
She finished writing and handed it back to me:
Will the party who found my beloved mackerel tabby cat Fluffy and turned her in to the Wilkinson Animal Shelter two days ago please contact me? I want to thank you in person and present you with a heartfelt gift for saving her .
âWell?â she asked.
âBetter,â I said. âLetâs hope it works.â
âNow that weâre partners,â she said, âwho was killed and what does the cat have to do with it?â
âThe police have asked me not to divulge the name of the deceased to anyone,â I lied. âAnd the cat may have nothing at all to do with it.â
She frowned again. âWhy would a killer take a victimâs cat with him? Itâs not as if the damned thing could testify to what it saw.â
I shrugged. âI donât know. Maybe it scratched him, maybe he got some DNA on it.â
She shook her head. âThen why turn it in to a shelter?â
âIf I had all the answers Iâd know who he was and heâd be in jail or totally off the hook,â I said.
âLetâs put our heads together and see what we can reason out.â
âNot this second,â I said apologetically. âI can tell Marlowe needs a walk. Canât have him messing the rug,â I said as I grabbed his leash and put it on him.
âThe carpet, damn it!â she snapped.
âBack soon,â I said as I opened the door and tugged Marlowe, who was still nine-tenths asleep, down the stairs and out the door.
It was still light out, and I walked Marlowe almost two blocks past Mrs. Garabaldiâs petunias in the hope that Mrs. Cominsky would get tired of waiting for me, but sheâd had an evangelistic look about her face as I left that said, Youâre Nick, Iâm Nora, thatâs Asta, and weâre going to solve a murder thatâs stumped the police .
Even Marlowe, who never feels anything, was getting uncomfortably cold, and finally I began walking him back to the apartment. I became aware that a car was following us very slowly the final half block. I figured it was just because of some icy patches on the street, but then I remembered Iâd just driven on the same street maybe half an hour ago, and the traction was fine, so I stopped and turned to look at it.
It was a BMW, and the driver had
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